For the goosebump, in the heartbeat...

December, 2008.

It's almost midnight. I turn onto Beverly from Fairfax, where a quick right sends me up his street. I pull up in front of his apartment and call him to tell him I'm there, glancing at my thermometer as I end the call.

48 degrees.

I'm nervous.

He makes me nervous.

To work out some of that anxious energy, I pop my trunk and start digging through the contents, looking for a sweater, tossing in my CD case so I don't just leave it sitting out in the open on my backseat.

I hear him approach and look up.

God, he's gorgeous.

His bone structure adds this wildness to his face that makes him look like he's got a thunderstorm trapped beneath his skin.

Which isn't too far from the truth.

I notice he's grown a van dyke since I last saw him. It looks good... but then, with his face, everything looks good. It's grown out in this golden cornstalk color, and I'm blown away by how perfect he looks.

"Hey," I say, closing my trunk, walking towards him.

"Hey," he returns to me, opening his arms.

This is the second time we've gone out. I try not to assume anything about the amount of physical and sexual contact my partners enjoy in public, so I go for the hug. He's hard to read, or maybe it's just my nervousness blurring my normal instincts.

About a half-second too late, I realize he's going for the kiss, and I backtrack my movements immediately.

Oh god, he's warm.

God, I've missed this.

Thoughts are flying through my brain as we kiss, all of them starting with religious overtones.

He's perfect.

We're under a street light in front of his apartment, I'd normally be shaking from the cold but he heats my whole body as our lips move together.

We stop and breathe, foreheads touching.

"Hello," I whisper against his lips.

He grins back, "Hello, yourself."

He grabs my hand and pulls me back towards his apartment.

He doesn't realize the shock that was to my system. I haven't held another person's hand in about four months. That tends to be reserved for people I'm comfortable with.

I'm marvelling at the feel of our palms meeting in holy palmers' kiss as we stride back towards his apartment.

Past the bikes linked together.

Up the high curb that was so poorly designed.

Up the narrow stairs that double back on themselves and the taupe walls with visible brushstrokes, madman's canvas.

He pushes open the door and we're together again, standing at the foot of his bed and he drops me, perfectly supported, I feel my body rolling like a perfect throw in judo, except it's slow and our lips never stop.

His mattress is thin and on hardwood. We move together in this ballet of thrown clothes and frantic touches as we reacquaint ourselves with the other's body. I don't remember these scars, the freckles. He has a new tattoo since last we met, over his heart, in cursive, it says:

Start here

I do.

Kisses and licks down his chest, starting from the ink that darkens his skin.

But we don't wait for foreplay. That's for another night. We have a midnight movie to get to at the little theater down the street, and I'm already wet and willing him to get inside me, calling his name as he starts lapping between my legs, my fingers roaming through his short blonde hair, legs sliding up and down the sheets on either side of his body as he slips a finger inside me.

I moan his name, then, "Oh, please, get inside me."

No further encouragement necessary.

I toss him a condom- I always use my own- and he slides it down his shaft and is in me so quickly it's almost beyond human speed.

My body adjusts rapidly, legs are wrapped around his waist, his hands are pinning my wrists down above my head and our lips continue to seek each other, with short coffee breaks to roam to neck and earlobes.

Our rhythm is perfect.

I've never found this with another man.

There are no errors. There is no lack of flow. We are like two parts of one body, the beast with two backs, and we can conduct a symphony with the perfect matching measurements between us, shifting speeds and angles as though we had choreographed this in advance.

The whispered, "I'm going to cum," in my ear sets me to moaning. I love this, when the thrusting takes on more intensity, when you can feel the shaft pulsing against your flesh as he floods inside you.

We lie there, my legs once more wrapped around him.

"I think I'm just going to stay like this forever," I tell him.

"What are we going to do about food?"

"Ah, I'll just eat you."

"Not if I eat you first," he starts biting my shoulders and I'm laughing and biting back as he slides out of me and tosses the condom behind him, onto the hardwood.


It all blends together.

I miss him.

I miss his beauty, and his intensity. I miss lying on the bed facing him as we talk, staring into those too-blue eyes, those insane skyblue eyes of his that I could sink into.

Our first date ended up being twenty-four hours long.

Tattoos on Melrose, clean-up at his apartment (I was bleeding heavily for some reason), a silent film down at the Old Town Music Hall in El Segundo, then dinner around 11PM at The Kettle in Manhattan Beach. That was the first time I had ever been there.

Lying in bed together that night, on my black sheets, just staring at each other. People are always complimenting my eyes, I thought, but they should see his.

"Who is this girl," he says from across the sheets, "Who would go get tattoos with me? Who are you?"

I shrugged at him, "I'm just a girl. Just me."

When we had sex that night, because of the placement of that tattoo, I ended up bleeding ink onto him, so we had matching tattoos, except mine was in the inner curve of my left hipbone, and his was on the right.

The next time, at his place, I found I had smeared eyeshadow across his right shoulder from buring my face against his neck during sex. It happened a few more times after that. I never realized how often I did that.

He was so about love, about loving everything.

But he understood pain, understood damage.

One of the first things that drew me to him was reading some of his writing.

"Pain is how I pray."

And I said, yes, yes, he'll understand.

He did.


I have so many men, so many wonderful experiences to be thankful for.

He's one of them.